


Cartography

by romanticalgirl



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:30:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to <a href="http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/"><b>nolivingman</b></a> for the beta and the "guh" for inspiration. Originally posted on <a href="http://aos-flashfic.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://aos-flashfic.livejournal.com/"></a><b>aos_flashfic</b> for the "Beginnings" challenge</p><p>Originally posted 3-26-06</p>
    </blockquote>





	Cartography

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/profile)[**nolivingman**](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/) for the beta and the "guh" for inspiration. Originally posted on [](http://aos-flashfic.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://aos-flashfic.livejournal.com/)**aos_flashfic** for the "Beginnings" challenge
> 
> Originally posted 3-26-06

William Bush is not prone to thoughts and flights of imagination. He is a man of morals and morality, the slight difference between them nearly indistinguishable in his mind. He knows his place and his practicalities and does not waver from them. Never has.

Until now, when it’s too late to remember who he is and what he is and where they are. Until time and temper and temperature overwhelm him in the heat and the need and the slow coil of fire lit within his gut flares to life in the darkness and, without thinking, he reaches out.

Hornblower doesn’t look up at the touch, doesn’t react. His hand lays there – long, exquisite fingers stained from ink and rough from work, pale in the light of the reflecting moon. Bush swallows and runs the tips of his fingers over the arch of the back of Hornblower’s hand, feeling the smooth skin against his own callused flesh.

The wardroom is silent but for the sound of the sea and the sound of their breathing, echoing in the tinder-dry wood and softened pitch. Hornblower’s chest seems to catch as Bush brushes the line of his wrist. Lifting his eyes, Bush watches the darkness shutter as Hornblower lowers his lashes, shadows staining his tanned cheeks. His hand turns beneath Bush’s and his palm opens up to him and any evidence of the man Bush is gives way to the man he wants.

A sultry breeze slips in and gutters the lantern, plunging the room completely into darkness save the waning moon. Bush’s chest is tight and hot, his breath caught as he traces the outline of Hornblower’s hand, drawing the line of every finger before resting his palm on the damp surfaces of Hornblower’s own.

Swallowing hard, Bush moves his hand again, satisfied that Hornblower’s eyes remain closed, his breathing heavy and steady and low before he lowers his gaze to Horatio’s right hand. He trails a finger along the palm, watching the quiver of flesh before tracing the shadowed lines that stand out between the faint scars and burns that remain. Heart, head, health and fate.

He remembers his sisters dressed in rags and dresses, pretending to be gypsies and telling him his future was all in his hands. He wonders at the truth of it as he isolates Hornblower’s smallest finger – still long and lean and elegant - and strokes it, feather light touches that cause Horatio to tremble in response.

This is power, Bush thinks, not the number in front of his rank or his battery of guns. This small, simple touch that rends this man before him to a mass of response. This simple brush of finger and flesh that parts Hornblower’s lips and forces a quick panting breath from his opened mouth. He can see the way of madness and the way of despair and the way of greatness, depending on how one reaches for it, and he reaches for it, running the tips of his fingers down the length of Horatio’s once again.

Hornblower’s body shudders and he lifts his chin, his breathing loud in the room, in Bush’s ears. His hand slips free of Bush’s for a moment and then returns, his fingers stroking a smooth pattern on the back of Bush’s hand. Heat flares through Bush, like a match to kindling, and he exhales in a desperate effort to breathe again.

He cannot say what it is that reacts within him. He does not know himself that way, that well. But he turns the touch, finding Hornblower’s hand again. His other hand comes to bear and he pins Hornblower’s wrist lightly, both of them staring at the trembling grip. Hornblower nods imperceptibly, acquiescence from a man Bush no longer considers his junior, and Bush moves, still holding Hornblower steady as his fingers continue their slow exploration.

Hornblower sighs as Bush releases him, the relief giving way to a coiled inhale as Bush grazes his wrist again, sliding beneath the cuffs of his shirt to feel the rushed, rapid pulse beating against the smooth, soft flesh. He can feel the bones move as Hornblower tenses, can feel the fluid rush pounding against his own skin. He slides his fingers free then under again, his eyes on Horatio now, on the slow slide of his tongue across his bottom lip, on the pained breaths that move his chest.

Bush’s hand shakes as he brings it back to Hornblower’s palm, resting the tips of his fingers there for a long moment, letting the night settle in silence around them again before moving them, sweeping them across Hornblower’s sensitive flesh. Breath caught – his or Hornblower’s, he does not know – and Horatio shivers beneath him, his arm tightening and trembling, his fingers closing instinctively.

Bush raises his eyes to Hornblower’s, the dark burning in their depths thickening his blood. He rubs the curled knuckles of Hornblower’s fist, easing his hand open and touching again. Life, love, thought and destiny. He strokes the creases like the latitude and longitude of Hornblower’s maps, caressing new destinations from along their lines.

He understands the danger of this, though his hands move of their own volition. Everything in him goes against this, though everything in him pushes him forward. He trembles with need and desires he does not know or understand. He sees long, elegant fingers in his dreams, imagines their touch on his flesh and wakes up aroused and alone and longing.

His fingers find Hornblower’s wrist again and his thoughts stray beyond it to the tanned flesh beneath layers of clothes and the cool sweat of the tropical night. He closes his eyes and wraps his hand around Horatio, his thumb sliding over the pulse, shifting his grip and his seat as the thought of more clouds his head and his vision until the sharp peal of the bell sounding the watch shatters the silence around them.

Bush stumbles away from the table and catches his breath, watching as Hornblower transforms himself, the proper officer as steps echo toward them. “Relight the lantern, Mr. Bush.” His voice is thick and gives him away and, for an instant, Bush wonders, until the light flickers and he sees Hornblower’s eyes, the glimmer in them and the curved, knowing smile of his lips. “Sir.”  



End file.
